Paint Around the Empty Space
by Adara-chan67
Summary: When a simple hunt ends in disaster, Sam finds himself alone and doesn't take to it well. Limp! Crazy!Sam, Worried!Sad!Dean, and Angsting!Winchesters. Crossover with Rob Thurman's Nightlife as of chapter four. NOT a deathfic. Rating just to be safe.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I wonder if anyone would actually notice if we just stopped tacking these things on...but I don't think I'm going to try it. Bottom line is, I don't own anything except the plot._

_Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Cal and Niko Leandros, and whoever else I feel like putting in._

_Setting: Sometime between Hunted and AHBL_

_Warnings: Temporary character death. Sort of._

* * *

Prologue

There were…flames. 

They surrounded him, enveloped him, burned him.

He wanted to make them go away, but he couldn't _think._

He couldn't run, he couldn't escape, he couldn't save himself.

He couldn't _do_ anything, because he was alone and that hadn't happened in so long.

Then there were hands on him, pulling at him, manipulating him, and voices in his ears yelling at him to _come on, get out, it isn't safe._

He couldn't find it in himself to disagree or argue or pull away, so he just went along with it and let the people drag him out of the house, feeling numb from the inside out.

Numb and...alone.

_Dean._

* * *

_Author's Note: Hey, guess what? I'm _almost_ sure where I'm going with this one! I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't have a _plan_, but I do have the sketchings of one. Isn't that cool? Review, please!_


	2. Down To Cases: Sam

**Chapter 1**

Lenox Hill Hospital was a pretty big place. It wasn't exactly the most famous hospital in the country, but that didn't mean its doctors weren't any good or that it wasn't fully equipped with the best equipment it could afford.

It was at this hospital that one very unhappy doctor sought one very large cup of coffee and a couple of doughnuts to keep that coffee—his ninth cup today, and it was only almost noon now—from burning a giant hole in his stomach.

Now, this doctor who was ordering the coffee was not by nature an angry guy. He got along well with his colleagues, his patients, almost everybody. But today had not been a good day, and the reason for that was lying in the psych ward right now.

Their John Doe had arrived three days ago, a victim of an unexplainable fire in downtown New York City. He'd been completely out of it at the time, seemingly incapable of interacting with anyone, from the doctors who examined him to the Dr. Thornton, the psychologist who came for a consult. But when an unfortunate intern had tried to stick him with an IV, the kid had gone completely wild. By the time he was sedated, that intern, two nurses and an attending were lying unconscious on the floor.

John Doe had been restrained in a bed in the psych ward since then, but he hadn't needed to be sedated again. Now he just…lay there, day in and day out, devoid of any emotion of expression.

And in that time, not one person had come. A physically healthy, good-looking man who couldn't be older than twenty-three or so had been tied to a bed for three days and _not one person had come to find him._

Dr. Thornton hated cases like this, when troubled people who might only be suffering from loneliness or a need for contact were instead left alone to suffer because their family had abandoned them or simply couldn't be found or didn't exist.

So, he'd ended up at the coffee cart, drowning his sorrows in caffeine and hoping against hope to find a solution at the bottom of the next cup.

It was on days like this that he really wished he'd become a dentist.

XXX

_The fire wasn't burning him yet, but it was coming closer. He stared at it, wondering why he wasn't more frightened. Fire was his worst fear, his mortal terror, the one thing that undid him. The one thing he couldn't handle._

_But now there was fire _in the roomwith him._ It was inching closer all the time. It was going to kill him, and he wasn't afraid. He was just…empty._

_Alone._

_But…why did he feel like that _now?_ Why did it feel so _new? _Hadn't he always been alone?_

_And who was he, anyway?_

Who am I?

_The fire crept closer._

XXX

Dr. Thornton sighed as he glanced over his John Doe's chart, trying to fight off complete and abject discouragement. His patient simply was not responding to his new medication—not that that was anything new. This kid seemed entirely immune to any drug administered to him—but that was…impossible. _No one_ could resist _everything_, right?

Nope, he wasn't buying it. He'd had difficult cases before, and God knew he would again. He'd just…have to try something else, was all.

He was turning to leave when fingers locked around his wrist in an iron grip.

XXX

_He wished he knew how long he'd been in the room with the fire. Not that it really mattered, he guessed—he didn't really have any pressing engagements, anyway._

_But still, he wasn't very fond of mysteries. He didn't know why, having no clue of who he was and all, but the fact that he didn't know how long he'd been here—or where here _was_, for that matter—just…bugged him._

_But he should probably get used to it, right? He couldn't leave, since there was no door or window or little tiny mouse hole in the wall, and even if he could he might not want to. He might just want to stay here, regardless of time and whatnot, where everything was at least quiet, if it wasn't exactly peaceful._

_Then again, the fire might have other plans. He didn't know what would happen when it reached him, but he was willing to bet it wouldn't be fun._

_Didn't change the fact that he couldn't leave, though…_

_As he was thinking it, the fire…faltered, and that was just weird. Wasn't fire supposed to be this big, powerful, unshakable _thing?_ Was it supposed to back off like this? He didn't think so…_

_Still, best not to sit around pondering when there was escaping to be done. He seized the chance and leapt through the sudden gap in the flames._

XXX

John Doe was staring at him, but his eyes were still absolutely blank, and that creeped Dr. Thornton out more than words could say.

"Um…sir?" he asked uncertainly, trying gently to disengage the hand around his wrist. "Mr…um…patient, sir? Can you hear me?"

John Doe didn't answer—just continued to watch him.

"All right, I'm just…going to examine you now, okay?" Dr. Thornton said, reaching into his pocket. "Can you follow the light for me?"

The blank eyes most certainly did _not_ follow the light. They didn't do anything but _stare_ at him.

"O…kay…let's try this again. Can you hear me? Blink if you understand."

He got nothing for his trouble except the feeling that he may as well be talking to a lamp post.

Finally, Dr. Thornton sighed and started to turn away, having decided to do yet more tests.

But there was…one small problem.

John Doe wasn't letting go of his arm.

XXX

_He felt strangely distant as he noted that he was in a hospital, tied firmly to a bed, holding on to a doctor. The man looked a little startled, maybe even disturbed, but that didn't matter any more than anything else did._

_The doctor spoke to him, but his voice was muted and didn't quite reach. When he got no response, he pulled something out of his pocket and there was a light. It didn't pull any reaction, though, and the doctor looked disappointed._

_The doctor started to turn away, and suddenly there was a feeling of desperation, of need, of words bubbling up inside._

_He spoke._

XXX

"It's…coming…"

The voice was hoarse, raspy, and…absolutely empty of all emotion. _Scarily_ empty, in fact.

Dr. Thornton stared at the man still holding onto him, unable to believe it.

"Excuse me? Did you…say something?"

And when, exactly, had he become _that person?_ When did he become the person who reacted this way to the unexpected? He wasn't running the tests he should be running, he wasn't administering medication or doing a CT, he was just…standing here, asking the world's stupidest questions.

What was it about this kid that _froze_ him this way?

"The fire…"

Dr. Thornton started when his patient spoke again, still in that same raspy voice.

"The fire…it's coming…"

He was trying to decode this when John Doe let go of him and fell back to the bed, his face never once changing expression.

Dr. Thornton took a deep breath, trying in vain to steady his sudden nerves, and even though he had a dozen other patients to check on, he made no move to leave the room.

He was too busy wondering what the _hell._

XXX

_The fire was back. That made sense—the fire never _really_ went away. But how had _he_ gotten back here? Hadn't he…escaped? For a minute? Or…had he been here the whole time?_

_He couldn't remember anymore—it was all fading again._

_And the fire came closer._

XXX

"I don't understand this!" Dr. Thornton burst out in frustration, throwing the folder he held back on the counter with a slap.

"What's up, Doc?" the intern he was currently working with asked.

Dr. Thornton glowered. "Funny, Tripp."

Anthony looked confused. "…What?"

Dr. Thornton stared at him. "You mean you…" He shook his head. "Never mind," he muttered, picking the file up again and opening it. "Here, look at this. According to his CT results, our John Doe has absolutely nothing wrong with his brain. He hadn't hit his head, he's not concussed, so he can't just be confused or delirious. His only injuries are burns, and those are healing normally. There's absolutely no reason for him to be lying in bed like some sort of…vegetable."

"But he's not," Anthony said. "He grabbed you, right?"

"Yeah," Dr. Thornton said. "But only for a minute. And now…I dunno, it's like it never happened. He's back to his…waking coma, or whatever, and there's no reason for it."

"But I thought you said that mental problems were unpredictable. Maybe this is just…him, being crazy."

Dr. Thornton shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "But that's just it—he's _not_ crazy. He's not talking to himself, reacting inappropriately to the situation, he's not even trying to get out of his restraints. He doesn't seem to care what's going on around him at all. That's not insanity—that's not even _human."_

Anthony seemed to think about it for a long time. Then he shrugged and said, "Well, I'm confused."

"Me, too, Tripp," Dr. Thornton said, looking back at the folder in his hands. "Me, too."

XXX

_The flames were so close now that he could almost feel the heat of them on his face. Almost. But he couldn't _really_ feel anything at all, and that included anything physical._

_But he did know that he _should_ be able to feel them as they crackled and popped their way closer—that was how close they were. And when they touched him…_

_Why didn't he feel more afraid? Why was he _empty?

What's wrong with me?

_And then the flames wrapped around him, and he stopped asking questions._

XXX

Dr. Thornton was about to leave for the night—after visiting the coffee cart again—when he was paged with a 911 from John Doe's room.

Usually Dr. Thornton met a 911 was met with a sad sigh and a question of who would need a heightened dosage, but not this one. This time, he forgot about leaving entirely and practically flew to the room.

Their John Doe was thrashing in his bed, fighting his restraints for the first time, and the sounds coming from his mouth were almost unearthly in their pain and absolute, raw terror. He didn't use words—he was too far gone for that. And from the number of discarded syringes on the floor, sedating him had been a total failure.

And five minutes ago he had been a waking vegetable.

This was just too weird.

XXX

_It _hurt.

_He didn't know how long he'd gone without feeling anything at all, but he would give just about anything to go back to that. Not that he had anything to give, but that wasn't the point._

_The point was…pain._

_Lots of pain._

_Which was weird, because the fire wasn't even there anymore. What was there, now that the fire had wrapped itself around him, was the same absolute nothing that had been there all along._

Nothing._ It was interesting, the way people often said things like "There's nothing there" or "I see nothing." It was never true—never. There was always _something_ in front of a person's eyes, in the real world._

_But here…well, here, there really _was_ nothing. Not even darkness or light. Whenever he looked at something, he never comprehended anything. It was as if anything that reached his eyes and his mind slipped away before he could get a firm grasp on it. It was, in the truest sense of the word, _nothing.

_And now he really couldn't distract himself anymore, because this was unequivocally the worst pain ever felt by anyone in the history of the universe _ever,_ and he was pretty sure it was never going to go away._

_And here was something interesting—pictures. They were flashing through his head at warp-speed, pictures of pain and blood and death, and all he wanted to do was make them go _away._ They made him angry._

_They made him want to kill._

_As if that thought had been a trigger, the nothingness faded, giving way at last to the real world, the hospital, and the people in it._

_But the pictures didn't._

_And neither did the urge to kill._

XXX

For a guy that hadn't eaten solid foods in three days, John Doe was a pretty strong guy. Dr. Thornton noted this almost clinically as he watched Anthony Tripp and a nurse, Amy, fly in separate directions across the room, having made the mistake of trying to get their patient back into bed.

He was still trying to figure out how John Doe had done it—how he'd snapped the straps holding him in place like they were rubber bands and completely thrown off every drug in his system to kick the crap out of every person in the room.

He was still trying to figure it out when he hit the wall and spun off into the dark.

XXX

_He regretted having to kill them a little. But they'd gotten in the way, and besides, at least they satisfied his urge a little bit. Not a lot, but a little._

_Now he'd just have to go out into the world and find something a little more fulfilling—maybe some ghosts, or a few demons._

_Maybe even a couple of possessed humans, if he couldn't find anything else…_

_There was something wrong with that, he knew, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was, and he still didn't have any emotions to help him, so he shoved the thought aside and returned to business._

XXX

Dr. Thornton managed to crawl out of the blackness long enough to watch as the patient he'd given most of his attention and most of his help to for three days walk calmly out of the room as if nothing had ever happened to him.

That was weird, too, but the dark was creeping up on him again, and he succumbed to it without another thought.

* * *

_Author's Note: The next chapter may take just a bit longer to put up, since I'm going back to school next week and won't be quite so bored, but it won't be too terribly long. Review, please!_


	3. Down to Cases: Dean

Chapter 2

Hell was…not like he'd thought it would be, Dean reflected as he looked around the room with a distant, almost uncaring, eye. He'd always envisioned the eternal flame as being…well, flaming, first of all. Where was the _fire?_ The pain and torture and evil? Not that he was complaining—he'd rather all that just stayed where it was—but seriously. What was _up?_

Well, anyways, Hell wasn't like he'd thought it would be. What Hell was…was…_boring._

He had no idea how long he'd been here—how long he'd been chained to the wall of this dim, gray, dull room, looking at nothing and wondering what had _happened_ to him. He couldn't really measure time, since there was no light here—he couldn't even go by his stomach, not having felt hungry since he'd woken here. He couldn't walk around, obviously, and the place wasn't exactly teeming with visitors, so he couldn't talk to anyone.

What he _could_ do was think, and that was basically all he'd _been_ doing—thinking, inventing new curse words, worrying about Sam, and remembering—at least what he could—how he'd gotten here in the first place.

_(Flashback)_

"_This is gonna be the easiest night we've had in a long time," Dean scoffed, checking his gun for the fourth time and closing the trunk of the car._

"_Dean, you really shouldn't say that," Sam said, sounding pained. "Every time you say that, I get hit in the head with a blunt object or pinned by a bookcase or something."_

"_That's not true," Dean said, sounding offended. "And it _is_ gonna be easy—it's just a poltergeist. And we're twice as good at those since Missouri taught us that cool purifying trick."_

"_And remember the last time we _used_ that 'cool purifying trick'?" Sam asked. "Remember how _that_ went?"_

_Dean twitched as the words hit home, and he said, "Oh, yeah. Um…maybe you should sit this one out."_

"_That wasn't my point, Dean," Sam said in exasperation. "Look, let's just do this fast, okay? Faster than usual, now that you've jinxed us."_

"_I did _not…"

"_Dean."_

_Dean sighed gustily. "Yeah, all right, let's go."_

_(End Flashback)_

Looking back, Dean really wished his feet were free so he could kick himself. _The easiest night we've had in a long time…what was I _thinking?

If Sam were here, he would've been doing that irritating smirking thing. Dean could practically hear him—_that's what you get for being cocky, Dean._

The thought of Sam made his throat close up a little, and he sighed and wished for the thousandth time that he could go back and keep himself and Sam _away_ from that damned house in New York. Maybe then none of this would have happened…

_(Flashback)_

_The brilliant, purifying light faded after a few seconds, and Dean grinned cockily at his brother. "See? Easy. You worry too much, Sammy."_

_Sam rolled his eyes and rested his gun on his shoulder. "Yeah, and you worry too little. Now let's just go before…"_

_The younger Winchester cut himself off then, his eyes suddenly going wide. He took his gun off his shoulder and shouted, "Dean, get down!"_

_Dean didn't hesitate—he ducked as Sam fired. He didn't look behind him—he concentrated instead on his brother, and that was how he knew something was wrong. He saw the moment Sam went from determined to terrified, his eyes going wide and scared, and that was _enough.

_In a single movement, he was upright again and standing beside his brother, turning to face the threat._

_Which…wasn't there._

_The room was empty._

_But Sam didn't seem to agree. He was still looking wildly around, and he was whispering…the same words, over and over again. "Not now…not now, not now, not now…"_

"_Sam, what's…" Dean started to ask, baffled._

_Then the curtains caught on fire. It started to spread almost immediately, as if every surface was soaked in napalm, and if Dean had needed any confirmation that his wasn't a natural fire, well, he'd just gotten it._

_Sam whimpered—actually _whimpered, _like a hurt puppy—and that was so beyond _enough_ that it wasn't even funny._

"_Sam, come on. We have to go. _Now,"_ Dean barked, his hand locking around his brother's arm and tugging. "Come _on

"_Too late."_

_The voice was creamy-smooth and layered with amusement, and Dean felt then as if time had stopped completely. He remembered that voice—probably wouldn't forget it to the day he died. He'd never hated any sound quite so much._

_Sam whimpered again. Dean couldn't understand that—he got that Sam was afraid right now, but what was with the frozen-in-fear act?_

_And the fire was still spreading, so why were they still even _here?

_The yellow-eyed demon laughed in a disgusting parody of delight. "Are you seriously asking that question, Dean-o? Do you honestly think for one second that you could leave here if I don't want you to? Which I don't, by the way?"_

_The demon grinned at him and Dean felt another wave of disgust._

"_Sammy was right, Dean. You jinxed yourself." He raised his hand and waved two fingers. "Bye-bye, now."_

_And then the fire enveloped Dean, and a hand was clenching painfully on his shoulder, and Sam was screaming, and Dean knew nothing more._

_(End Flashback)_

Dean didn't remember anything that came after Sam's scream. There had been darkness, and then he'd woken here, chained to the wall, completely alone. He was pretty sure he was in Hell, because where else would that demonic SOB take him? But that didn't explain the lack of fire, torture, or general pain. That also didn't explain the absence of anything remotely demonic.

He really wished someone would show up. He'd take anyone short of Lucifer himself—any distraction to keep him from dwelling on the fact that Sam could very well be dead right now. He'd refused to let himself even think it since he'd woken up, but he didn't think he could keep his mind off it for much longer.

The problem was, there hadn't been any sign of _anyone_ since he'd come here, and he didn't anticipate that changing anytime soon, at least not without some sort of inspiration.

Well, then, he'd give them some inspiration.

A lot of inspiration.

XXX

Thirty minutes later, Dean's voice was breaking with the force of his shouts, but he hadn't given up. "COME ON, YOU COWARDS! I'M TIRED OF WAITING FOR YOU TO SHOW YOUR FACES! WHAT ARE YOU DOING THAT'S SO MUCH MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR DAMN PRISONER? CROUCHING IN YOUR CORNERS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT A NEW PLAN TO END THE WORLD? YOU SHOULD KNOW BY NOW THAT NEVER WORKS! NOW SOMEONE GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW, 'CAUSE I CAN DO THIS 'TIL GABRIEL BLOWS HIS HORN! C'MON, YOU FUGLY SONS OF…"

The demon appeared so abruptly that it took Dean a second to realize that she was even there. When he did, though, he stopped shouting instantly, swallowing hard and wondering why he wasn't wishing for a glass of water right now.

The girl—demon—in front of him was…well, hot. That was really the only word to describe it, and even though Dean felt absolutely nothing toward the thing except disgust, he was still _himself_, so he felt compelled to notice. She looked to be in her twenties or so, blond, and apparently into leather, judging from her pants and her jacket. All in all, she bore a striking resemblance to Buffy the Vampire Slayer—irony of ironies.

As he stared, the demon rolled her eyes. "God. Could you _be_ any more annoying?"

"I probably could," Dean replied coolly. "You could've just come when I called and I wouldn't have had to go that far."

The girl crossed her arms and said, "Well, I'm here now. I'm not supposed to be, but I am. So what'd you want to talk about?"

"Um…how about what I'm _doing_ here, for starters?"

"What makes you think I'll tell you that?"

"Save it," Dean snapped. "I'm not in the mood for games here. You freaks must know I'm not telling you anything, giving you anything, or…whatever. What did you possibly hope to gain by killing me?"

The demon laughed. "Is _that_ what you think is the deal here? You really _are_ confused, aren't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not _dead_, Dean," the girl said, her voice lined with irritation. "Jeez, you spend ninety-five percent of your time around ghosts and you can't even tell if you're _dead_ or not? Lame…"

"Did you miss the part about how I'm not playing games with you? If you're not going to tell me what's going on, then go away."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're an abrupt one." Then she sighed and rolled her eyes again. "Fine, fine, I'm not really interested in keeping their secrets, anyway." She crossed the room and sat down in a chair that was just suddenly _there_, one leg tossed over the other, and crossed her arms again. "All right, Dean, I'm a wellspring of information. An open book. A fountain of truth. You ask a question, I give you the answer. Go."

Dean stared at her, considered asking why he should believe her, decided against it, and said, "What's your name?"

"Seriously?" she said. "I say you can ask me anything, and _that's_ your first question?" When he simply stared stonily at her, she shrugged and said, "Fine, whatever. Ruby. My name's Ruby."

"Okay. Ruby. Good start. So, Ruby, why don't you tell me why I'm here?"

Ruby nodded in approval. "See, now _that's_ a question. But the answer is kind of complicated. It's only a small part of a big plan, see."

"Well, why don't you just explain the small part for now, then?"

"It wasn't my idea. I'm just supposed to go along with it. Like I'm supposed to go along with _everything_ they dream up down here. But anyways—look, I know that when your dad died he told you something about Sam, right?"

Dean's face stilled. "How did you know that?" he asked in a hard voice.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is, I can't really elaborate on what he told you, but I _can_ tell you that Sam's visions aren't just that. They're a part of something _big_, which I know you've probably guessed by now, right? But the thing is, he can't really _use _them. He can't control them because he hasn't fully tapped into the ability yet."

"What're you talking about?"

"Would you let me talk?" Ruby snapped. "I'm breaking enough rules as it is, so stop interrupting me." She waited until he stopped glaring at her, then continued. "So. As I was saying, Sam can't use his abilities to their full extent, and until he can, he's pretty much useless. So the guy you call Yellow-Eyes has been trying to get him to break down the wall between himself and those abilities, and his latest thought is that maybe extreme grief will do that."

Dean was beginning to see where she was going with this, and a sick horror rose in his stomach. "You mean…"

"Yes, Dean. Your 'Yellow-Eyes' brought you here to make Sam think you were dead and maybe make it so that he won't have anything separating him from his power." She chuckled bitterly. "And it worked, too, let me tell you. Too well. Because now Sam isn't separated from the visions anymore—at all. They're in his head constantly now—night and day. Every potential vision he's been carrying around in his gigantic brain, every one he might have had in the future—they're all flashing through his mind one by one, and he has no way to stop them." Ruby chuckled a little, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Even our plans have been known to fall through every once in a while. Don't spread it around, though."

Dean couldn't quite seem to grasp what she was talking about—he was busy trying to absorb the fact that his baby brother was living in a twenty-four-hour-a-day death sequence. He'd seen what _one_ of those visions did to Sam, but a whole _slew_ of them…he couldn't begin to imagine it.

"Is it…is it going to…will it kill him?"

Dean stumbled over the question, almost unwilling to ask it, but in the end it was really the only option.

Ruby shook her head. "No. He won't die of it. But he might wish he could."

"What're you…?"

"He's insane," Ruby said simply. "The visions, watching innocent people die, and not having you to ground him—it's made him almost completely insane."

In a sea of terrifying facts, Dean did the natural thing and seized onto the island. "_Almost._ So…there's still a chance of saving him. I can still save him." He muttered it, not really saying it to _her…_just needing to _say_ it.

"And how _exactly_ do you plan to do that?" Ruby asked calmly. She watched as Dean scrambled for a reply, trying to fight through his rising panic, and then finally said, "Relax, Dean. That's why you're incredibly lucky that I'm the one who answered when you yelled. I just so happen to be the only demon I know of who isn't liking this plan all that much."

Dean managed to choke out a few words. "So…are you…will you…can you…"

"Oh, put your eyes back in, man," Ruby said, obviously exasperated. "I'm going to help you get out of here and help your precious little brother. There's only one condition—don't you _dare_ tell Sam about me."

"But…won't you get in trouble?" Dean asked, skipping over the last part of what she said entirely, and even as he said it he thought, _What are you doing, you idiot? Just take her up on it!_

She shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle."

"But…_why? _Why are you so willing to go against your friends' plan?" Dean asked, even as he desperately told himself to shut up.

"They're _not_ my friends," Ruby said vehemently, breaking her icy-calm exterior for the first time. Then she closed her eyes for a minute, and when she opened them that calm had returned. She stood up and walked over to him, crouching down in front of him.

"Besides…"

She smiled wolfishly, and released him.

"Who says I can't have a plan of my own?"

XXX

Ruby was at least decent enough to leave him in the impoundment lot that held his car, but she didn't seem overly interested in sticking around to see the rest of the show. In fact, she was gone by the time Dean got to his feet and turned to grudgingly thank her, even though she was a demon and he trusted her about as far as he could throw her.

Actually, he could probably throw her pretty far, so that wasn't really a great analogy, but whatever. He didn't have time to think about her or wonder about her, anyways. He would later, because she was quite the enigma, that Ruby demon, but…not now.

He had a brother to save.

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, that was…interesting. And I promise, the whole Dean-knowing-about-Ruby thing will be explained later. It's technically AU, but it won't affect the future of the series in any way. Like I said, it'll be explained._

_So. Anyways. I hope Ruby's story made at least a little sense. It might not make _complete_ sense, but I'm hoping I didn't screw it up entirely. Review and let me know, would ya?_


	4. The Missing Link

Chapter 3

All the man had been looking for was a shortcut to his meeting. He was running a little late, and in his business, being late could have…unfortunate consequences. In his business, there were sometimes clients who didn't like to wait to see a return for their cash.

So he took a shortcut, through the alley. He hadn't really thought about it—hadn't really put his mind to all those horror/thriller movies he'd seen where people went into dark alleys and died horrible painful deaths. It was just a cut—a creepy couple of minutes spent to save time in the long run. Nothing to worry about.

He regretted that lighthearted view in a serious way when a tall figure stepped out from behind a trash can and calmly jammed a knife into his ribs. He longed to be able to beat himself over the head as he fell to the ground, his heart already slowing, his breaths already ragged and shallow…

By the time his killer stepped away, he was already dead.

Sam Winchester gazed down at the man—a dealer, corrupt, but still human—he'd just killed. His eyes were blank and unfeeling, as if he didn't even recognize what it was that he'd just killed. As if it didn't matter.

Then he stepped over the body and walked away.

XXX

Dean booked a double room at the first motel he came to, and it was out of more than just habit, although that did play a certain part of his decision. Really, though, he got two beds because he refused to believe that he was going to be without Sam for more than a day.

Once he'd moved his stuff—and Sam's—into the room, he was able to get down to the business of putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Of course, in order to _fix_ Humpty Dumpty, he had to _find_ Humpty Dumpty.

Which, considering that the last time he'd seen Sam was when the world around them was going up in flames, was shaping up to be pretty freaking irritating. Not to mention the fact that he'd been out of the game for who knew how long and he didn't have a clear idea of what the score was.

He needed help, and he wasn't happy about it. But it was for Sam, and didn't that pretty much trump natural manly pride?

Of course it did.

Feeling even grouchier than he usually did when family members went missing, Dean dug his cell phone out of his pocket—he'd returned with everything he'd carried magically intact, even his gun—and dialed.

He hadn't even noticed the time, but when Bobby answered with a brusque, "The world better be ending in a damn rain of fire," Dean glanced at the clock and was considerably taken aback to discover that it was after three in the morning.

"Bobby?"

"…Dean?" The annoyance disappeared, and Bobby immediately asked, "What's wrong? You guys all right?"

Dean fell back on the bed, head landing about a foot short of the pillows, and ran a hand over his face. "You have no idea, Bobby," he said, his voice muffled by his hand. Then he dropped his arm back to the mattress and asked, "What day is it?"

A pause. "Dean, what…?"

"What day, Bobby?"

Bobby told him, still sounding confused and concerned, and Dean closed his eyes slowly. Five days…it could have been better, but it could also have been worse, he guessed.

"Dean, _talk to me,"_ Bobby growled in his ear. "What the hell is going on with you?"

Dean sighed. "Sam's missing again, Bobby."

"…Damn it."

"I know."

"What happened?"

"It's a long story. No, it's short. I went to Hell."

"…Yeah. Okay. That's great. Did you meet Henry VIII?"

Dean shook his head. "Look, man, we can talk about this later. Can you come?"

"Dean, if you think I'm not already in the car, you're even more of an idgit than I thought. Where am I going?"

"New York City. Super 8 Motel, room 10."

"Not so bad. I can be there tomorrow." Bobby was silent for a second. Then he said, "We're gonna find him, Dean. We always do. This isn't any different."

_God, I wish that were true._

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

XXX

After the dealer, a murderer died. It happened in an alley again—different in location, but not so much in looks.

Once again, the person died of a mortal stab wound to the side, and once again he was died before he knew what hit him.

The job was done cleanly this time, same as the last—an absolute lack of evidence to tie anyone to the crime.

And just like the last time, the body was left to cool where it had fallen.

XXX

Dean managed to rouse himself to feel a slight glimmer of amusement at Bobby's perplexed and baffled expression—he'd never before seen Bobby so completely nonplussed. But the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come, and he'd fallen back into that dreadful emptiness he'd been feeling since he'd returned to the world.

"And now I have no idea how to find him, and…what if he hurts himself? What if he…what if he can't handle the visions anymore and he…and he _kills…_?"

"Hey, hey, _hey," _Bobby cut him off sternly. "Don't you even _think_ that. Sam would _never…"_

"That's the problem, Bobby," Dean said quietly, flatly. "I don't think he's Sam right now. Ruby said…"

"Demons lie, Dean. You know that better than anyone."

"But what if she wasn't?" Dean asked. "What if she was telling the truth and Sam is…" He paused, then said with greater strength, "We need to find him, Bobby. _Now."_

Bobby checked his watch, saw that it was along about midnight, and gave up on sleeping tonight. "Let's get started, then."

XXX

The next victim was a seventeen-year-old girl, and she wasn't a drug dealer or a murderer. She was just a girl—a girl who had been known to cut school once in a while, whose grades left something to be desired, who spent far more time partying than she did studying, but nothing out of the ordinary for a teenager.

Just a girl.

This murder was identical to all the rest, and the body was left again, by a man who no longer knew or cared who he hurt.

XXX

"You don't _know?"_ Dean asked incredulously, pounding his fist against the pristine white desk in frustration. "How do you just…_not know?_ He was your _patient!_ What kind of freakin' hospital _is_ this?"

"Dean," Bobby's growling voice warned from behind him.

"Bobby, how can you be so damn calm? We spent all night tracking Sam to this hospital, and now they're telling us they _lost_ him. What part of that doesn't completely _suck?"_

The doctor Dean had been interrogating sighed. "I understand your worry, sir. I do, but…"

"No, you really don't," Dean snapped. "This goes way beyond worry. My brother is _missing_, and I don't know if he can—"

"_Dean."_

"_What?"_ Dean asked, turning abruptly to Bobby, who seized the opportunity to smack him upside the head.

"Boy, can't you just slow your roll for one second and get it through your caveman-thick skull that the nice doctor-man is trying to _help_ you?" Bobby glanced at Dr. Thornton, and then drew Dean off to the side a little and lowered his voice. "Dean, you practically raised that kid. You know him better than anyone, so you should know that if Sam decided that he didn't want to be here anymore—well, there was nothing anyone could have done to stop him. 'Cept maybe you, and you couldn't be here. So could you stop channeling your father and just _listen?"_

By the time the older hunter finished tearing Dean a new one his voice was perfectly audible, and Dr. Thornton was staring at them, puzzled. Dean gave him an entirely false smile and then turned the same smile on Bobby, and nodded a little too forcefully.

"Good," Bobby said calmly. "Now go talk to the doc like a rational human being. You can be an okay actor when you want to be—I'm sure you can fake it."

"You. Are. Hilarious," Dean grumbled, then turned back to the doctor and said unconvincingly, "Okay. Sorry. Let's just…take a breath here, okay?" He paused, then asked, "All right, so why don't you just tell me from the beginning? When did Sam first come here?"

Dr. Thornton looked around at the busy hallway, then made a gesture with one hand. "Come with me. We should talk…privately."

XXX

The police were baffled, to say the least.

The three victims, all killed in exactly the same manner, had absolutely nothing in common, as far as they could discover. Two of them could have any number of enemies, and it was even possible that they had some in common. But the girl…she was squeaky-clean, not a slip on her record. There was no reason for her to have been killed by the same person who had killed the two dirtbags.

But she had. All three had been killed by the same guy—and there was no evidence.

That last seemed…impossible. _No one_ could pull off one murder, let alone three, without a single thing to link them to the crime. It was just…_wrong, _but it had happened.

Now they just had to find someone to deal with it.

XXX

"And when I got to his room after the page, it was just in time to get tossed against a wall and knocked out. I woke up for a few seconds in time to watch him leave, but then I passed out again and I was out for a day or so. The other two…the intern and the nurse—they weren't so lucky. Dr. Tripp is still in the ICU, but he should be all right. But the nurse…she died."

Dean felt his brain trying to shut down again at that, babbling useless words at him like _killed a human_ and _murder charges._ Murder charges against himself, he could deal with, but _Sam…_

"The thing is, I don't think he even knew what he was doing," Dr. Thornton continued, his voice slightly unsteady. "I don't think he knew where he was. He might have just thought we were a danger to him."

"So…you don't think it's his fault," Dean said slowly, somehow making his voice not shake.

"I couldn't tell you," Dr. Thornton said. "I honestly don't know. But I do think that he wasn't entirely responsible for his actions. I just want to know what _happened_."

Dean leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a second. "Yeah. Me, too." He opened his eyes and leaned forward again. "So…you can't tell us _anything_ else?"

Dr. Thornton looked sorrowfully at him. "I wish I did, but…no. No one saw him leave. We already notified the police, but I don't know what good it'll do."

"It'll do less good than you think," Dean muttered, and Bobby elbowed him sharply in the side. Dean grunted and cleared his throat. "What about this Dr. Tripp? He got there before you—he see anything?"

Dr. Thornton looked down at his desk. "He's...he hasn't woken up yet."

"Oh," Dean said awkwardly. "Um…I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

Dean and Bobby waited until the silence became awkward, then cleared his throat again and helped himself to a piece of paper and a pen from the doctor's desk. "Well, look. Here's my number—if you remember anything else, or Dr. Tripp wakes up and is able to tell us anything, give me a call. No matter what time it is."

Dr. Thornton took the paper and pocketed it, nodding, as Dean and Bobby got up to leave.

Bobby was at the door and Dean almost there when the doctor spoke up again.

"I hope you find your brother."

Dean stopped and replied without turning around. "I will. Believe me, I will."

XXX

Dr. Thornton sat at his desk for a long time after Dean Winchester and his…grandfather? Uncle? Mentor?...left. He knew he should be checking up on patients and getting lab reports and doing all sorts of medical things, but…well, he felt like this was more important, somehow.

When John Doe's—Sam Winchester's—brother had shown up at the hospital, Dr. Thornton's initial reaction had been anger. How dare this guy show up _now_, after leaving his younger brother alone for five days without even bothering to call? How dare he swoop in acting all concerned and scared and then get mad at the doctors for doing the same thing he did—losing Sam?

But then he realized that Dean had been completely sincere in his worry. He was obviously terrified, and even though he hadn't been able to give any satisfactory answers as to where he'd been all this time, somehow the doctor had found his suspicions disappearing the longer he talked with the young man.

Somehow, he found himself wanting, very badly, to help.

He only wished he'd been able to do better…

XXX

"I hate this."

Bobby sighed and looked up from Sam's computer to Dean, who was reclining in his bed, aimlessly scraping a knife over a whetstone. "I know. But you've gotta keep it together, Dean."

"I'm _trying,_ Bobby. But in case you didn't notice, my little brother is _missing _and _insane_, and maybe hurt. You're lucky I'm even bothering with the practical route."

"You're _not_ following the practical route," Bobby pointed out. "_I'm_ following the practical route. _You're_ threatening invisible people with a sharp implement."

Dean looked sheepishly down at the knife, but didn't put it or the whetstone away. "It's something for my hands to do."

Bobby was about to answer, but he cut himself off with a choked little grunt and fixed his attention on the computer. Dean watched impatiently while Bobby's eyes scanned whatever was on the screen. Finally, though, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Bobby, _what?"_

Bobby sat back in his chair and gave a long, low whistle. "Well," he said finally. "I think our problems just got bigger."

XXX

Sam huddled behind a garbage bin, his head buried in his hands, rocking back and forth. He'd been all alone for a long time now—no one had come to visit him after he'd killed that lady. The only company he had was the pictures.

He only wished the pictures were prettier.

But they still showed him the same thing—dead people. Dead or dying people that he couldn't save because he couldn't find them. He'd hoped that by hiding in the dark places and killing when his mind said kill, he could make them go away. So he stopped trying to sort out the good people from the bad people and just got rid of them all.

But it didn't work.

The pictures didn't go away.

And Dean didn't come back.

XXX

"He's been killing."

Dean said it hollowly, calmly, emptily, because that was pretty much how he felt. Detached, like he was watching his life self-destruct from the sidelines. He had gone to hell, been rescued by a demon, and returned to the world, and meanwhile his brother had lost control of his powers, gone insane, and started _killing people._

_How am I supposed to bring him back from that?_

"Dean," Bobby said, his voice laced with sympathy and pain. "I know. I know you're tired—I am, too. And I know this is bad. But it could be a lot worse. We can still make this okay again, all right?"

"Are you sure?"

Any other time, Dean would have been ashamed and embarrassed by the vulnerable, childish ring in his voice. But right now, he was feeling like he'd lost everything, and he was pretty much counting on the only rock he had left to make this okay again.

He just wanted to make this okay again.

Bobby put a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "'Course I'm sure. We've solved worse than this before. You've just gotta stop beating yourself up, okay? This isn't your fault."

_You're wrong, Bobby. You're so wrong about that…_

"Yeah, I know."

"Good," Bobby said, straightening again and putting his stern face back on. "Now let's save your brother."

XXX

Cal Leandros fought the urge to grumble to himself as he crept down the dark streets of downtown New York. He fought it because even though _he_ was pretty sure this was a ridiculous mission, his brother didn't. And if Niko found out that he'd alerted some weird creature and let it get away because he'd been talking to himself—well, he would have quite a few problems on his hands.

So, he didn't say _out loud_ how lame he thought this was. But that didn't stop him from thinking it.

When the news of the three identical—but supposedly unrelated—murders had reached Niko's ears, the older Leandros had almost immediately decided they should check it out. The people had been killed with knives—in other words, by a human—but Nik just didn't see it that way. He figured that an innocent girl had been killed, there had been no way to track the killer, the police had come up with nil—_someone_ had to do something about it.

And guess who had been volunteered to do the something?

Cal adjusted his grip on his gun almost absently as he entered yet another alleyway—he'd been checking every one he came across, since alleys in this area were where everyone had been dying. Niko was a little ahead of him, checking other alleys—getting more done in less time, but near enough to be available in case of emergency.

Cal was just wondering how his brother's investigation was going when he was hit from the side by some sort of freakish giant and knocked to the ground.

His reaction felt rather mundane, even to him. More a feeling of "_oh, come _on_, this was supposed to be an _easy_ night"_ than anything else.

But then a fist flashed out of nowhere and socked him in the eye, and his indignation gave way to anger.

Their fight lasted longer than it should have, which sort of changed Cal's mind about the assailant—_assailant…_Niko really was having a bad affect on him—being human. That opinion was reinforced when he amassed an entirely ridiculous number of bruises and possibly a sprained arm—injuries that no normal human should have been able to inflict, unless Niko was right and he really _had_ been packing too many hot dogs away.

And that was impossible, so the guy _had_ to be a monster.

Right?

Right.

Cal flipped his opponent to gain the upper hand and returned to the fight with new energy. He just really wanted to get this _over_ with, so he could go home and sleep and let Niko rub it in how right he'd been about this…

He was still contemplating _that_ happy thought when a fist flashed again—only this time it hit harder, and in a different spot that sent Cal tumbling off into darkness.

XXX

"We need help, Bobby."

Dean spoke from behind his hands, where he'd been hiding his face for the last ten minutes in the faint hopes that if he didn't look at the absolutely _nothing_ they'd found, it would magically turn into _something._

Bobby sighed heavily. "I know. But from _who?_ The cops?" He said the last with a derisive snort, a note of sarcasm he and other hunters tended to reserve for what they viewed as a group with good intentions, but that usually hindered more than they helped.

"Well, no, of course not. But…well, what about Missouri?"

Bobby looked thoughtful. "Well, we could give her a call. But she doesn't travel much—I don't even know if she has a car. She might take a plane, but I doubt she could get here until tomorrow night at least."

"That's too long."

"Might be faster than doing it without her, though."

Bobby shrugged. "Can't hurt to try. I'll give her a call later…when it's not the dead of night there. She probably won't even wake up if we call her now."

Dean sighed. "Guess it'll have to do. Let's get back to work."

XXX

Cal woke up when he was shaken roughly, and he opened his eyes slowly to see Niko looming over him, looking decidedly irritated.

"Okay, I know you're the cavalry and all, but could you have been any slower?"

Niko's hand, when it came to help him sit up, had the strength of a vice, and his voice had a steely note to it when he said, "If I'd known what an ungrateful brat you were going to be, yes, I might have. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Concussed, but fine."

"Wonderful. Just…wonderful," Niko said, and helped him to his feet. "What happened?"

"Um…I got attacked. And…lost," Cal replied. Niko quirked an eyebrow. "Well, he was strong!" Cal said defensively.

"Yes," Niko agreed. "I know. He put up a good fight against me, too. Took me quite a few bruises to knock him out. That's why I'm not going to make you spend tonight sparring, rather than sleeping."

"Gee, thanks," Cal muttered. "Let's just…have a look at this guy who nearly killed me, okay?"

"I think you're being a tad overdramatic. You said yourself you only have a concussion. Maybe." Still, despite the sarcasm, Niko approached the prone figure of their attacker with caution. He crouched down and examined the guy, and after a minute spoke in a…different tone of voice.

"Cal, come here, please."

Cal raised his eyebrows, walked over, and crouched down next to his brother to look at his attacker.

"Um…Nik, is that…?"

"Yes, it is," Niko replied, sounding calmly interested.

"Well," Cal said, in as light a tone as he could manage. "This changes things."

"Yes, it does," Niko agreed.

"We should probably give Dean a call."

"Yes, we should."

"Can you say a sentence that isn't three words?"

"Yes, I can."

"Can you do it now?"

"No, I can't."

Cal groaned. His brother's sense of humor raised its ugly head at the weirdest times..."Let's just…get him back to the apartment."

"If you insist."

Cal decided it was best not to respond this time.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Hope you all liked it—and please review! _


	5. Going, Going, Gone

Chapter 4

It was after Dean finished reading the same paragraph for the dozenth time that he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept.

A little puzzled, he cast back through his memories. He'd slept the night before the last hunt with Sam, and then he'd gone to…Hell—although he was beginning to wonder whether that place _had_ been Hell, after all. Well, wherever it was, time hadn't really seemed to pass there, so he wasn't entirely sure he could count it. But if he _did_ count it, then…he added it all up in his head and realized he hadn't slept in a week.

Just the _thought_ of it made his limbs and his eyelids droop with limp exhaustion, and for a second his head sagged into his hand. But he jerked himself back into full wakefulness almost instantly, reminding himself sternly that _nothing_ was more important right now than finding Sam.

A loud snore from across the room disagreed—firmly—with that statement, and Dean glanced up from his book again to toss an irritated glance at Bobby, who was slumped over the table, deep in slumber. Dean rolled his eyes, but couldn't bring himself to wake the older hunter. He'd just do all the work himself, for a little while...

Five minutes later, he was still sitting up in his bed, with his back against the headboard, but he, like Bobby, was asleep.

And dreaming.

_He saw Sam._

_The kid looked…good. _Really_ good. A freakish giant with unnaturally large hands and feet and ridiculously long hair that never seemed to stay out of his face for long, but…well, that was just _Sam_. And right now, that was really all Dean wanted._

_But…maybe it _wasn't_ all Dean wanted, because something wasn't right._

_Sam looked sad. And angry. And…empty._

"_Sam?" Dean said uncertainly. "Is something...going on with you? 'Cause you don't look nearly as happy to see me as I am to see you."_

_Sam blinked slowly at him. Then he spoke, and his voice was as empty as his eyes._

"_You shouldn't have left me, Dean."_

_And then he pulled out a knife and calmly stuck it in between Dean's ribs, and as he fell, Sam turned around and walked away._

Dean woke with a start and realized dimly, through the terrified haze, that his phone has been ringing for the past few minutes at least. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he fumbled for the annoying thing and glanced at the caller ID. The number seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't seem to place it.

"H'lo?"

"Is this Dean?"

A number of sarcastic replies flashed through his mind, but instead of summoning the energy to use them, he just said wearily, "Yeah. Who'm I talking to?"

"It's Cal. Cal Leandros. Remember me?"

"Yeah," Dean said, the fuzziness beginning to fade into confusion. "'Course I do." Something important tugged at his memory as he said it, but it was gone the moment he tried to pin it down. "Everything okay?"

"Actually, I really don't think it is. 'Cause see, right now I'm sitting here trying not to fall asleep because I have a _concussion_ and Niko'll kill me if I go comatose on him."

"Uh-huh. Sounds sucky. But this really isn't a good—"

"Wanna know how I _got_ the concussion?" Cal interrupted.

"Not really, but I have a feeling you're gonna tell me anyways."

"Oh, believe me, you want to know. I got the concussion in a fight with your brother."

The last of the bleariness disappeared entirely and several facts clicked into place at once—namely, the one that had evaded him earlier, that Cal and Niko were actually based in New York City and really should have been the first people he called when this happened. He immediately felt like a total moron, but he brushed the feeling aside in favor of questioning Cal further.

"You _saw_ him?"

"More than saw him. He attacked me when I was investigating this rash of murders that's popped up, and he knocked me flat before Niko got the upper hand on him."

"Wait, wait, _wait._ Did you hurt him?" Dean asked. "If either one of you hurt him I'll…"

"_Relax,"_ Cal cut him off, sounding unconcerned with the implied threat. "We didn't do anything permanent. And considering the number of bruises Sam gave me, the fact that Nik didn't kill him makes him _damn_ lucky."

Dean took a deep breath and tried to control the anger clouding his vision. "Bottom line, Cal. Where is he now?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you before you went all big-brother on me. We've got him here at the apartment with us."

Dean's fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from his hand onto the floor. He hadn't been expecting that, for some reason. He'd been sure Cal was about to tell him that Sam gotten away, had run off to hide in some other part of the enormous city to slip further through the cracks and evade his brother's grasp yet again. But to be told that Sam was with friends—_safe—_was almost enough to break down the last of his defenses.

But not quite…not yet. Not until he saw his brother with his own eyes.

Cal's voice reached his ears then, quiet and muffled but demanding nonetheless that Dean say something to him _right now._ Trembling slightly, Dean leaned over to pick up the phone. He managed to speak without his voice shaking, and even to inject some measure of authority into it.

"Where are you?"

XXX

Cal hung up the phone and tossed it aside, then looked at Niko. "He's on his way. He says he's bringing someone with him—some kind of mentor, or something weird like that. Wouldn't tell me what's been going on, but he sounded…off."

Nik nodded as he finished wrapping Sam's arm. The young hunter was still as unconscious as when he'd arrived, and now that they'd had a chance to look him over they saw that Niko had done more damage than he'd originally thought. Cal had been speaking the truth when he said that none of it was permanent, but that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt when Sam woke up.

"You know Dean's gonna kill you for all that," Cal said, gesturing to Sam's sprained—or maybe a little bit broken—wrist, his smattering of mottled bruises, and the caked blood on the side of his head that Niko hadn't gotten around to cleaning off yet.

"He's welcome to try," Niko said calmly, reaching for the rag on the bedside table to do just that. "I could use the exercise."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a little bit psychotic?"

"Yes, I've heard that before. You may not want to be so quick to share your opinion, though." The last part was said with the vague hint of a threat, and Cal wisely decided to drop it.

"Well, anyways, he should be here pretty soon—he sounded…kinda panicked."

"Which lends itself to the possibility that there's something bad going on here," Niko added.

"Well, _yeah," _Cal said, gesturing again to Sam, who still hadn't moved. "Sam _attacked_ me, Niko. _Sam. _Last time we met, he wasn't someone who would _do_ that. We were…well, not friends, but at least friend_ly._ What could've _happened_ to him, Nik?"

Niko sighed and put the bloody rag aside. "I really don't know, Cal."

"And more importantly," Cal added without acknowledging his brother's words, "what are we gonna do when he wakes up?"

Niko raised an eyebrow and looked down at Sam, then sighed again. "Well, I don't relish the idea of knocking him on the head again, so we'll just have to hope that Dean's here by then. At least then _he_ can do the honors."

Cal groaned a little. "Great."

XXX

"So you're _sure_ that these guys are okay?"

Dean gritted his teeth at the question, which Bobby had already asked twice but didn't seem to be above asking again. _"Yes_, Bobby. I'm sure. I mean, they're…well, they're like us—they protect their own and exclude everything else. But they have no reason to want to hurt us. Sam's safe with them."

_As long as he doesn't try to hurt one of them._

Normally the thought wouldn't even have occurred to him. Funny how things turned out…

"Yeah, but are they safe with Sam?" Bobby countered, unwittingly echoing his thoughts.

Dean looked flatly at him. "Don't say that again."

Bobby looked away. "Yeah. Sorry."

Dean didn't answer—he just pushed his car harder, determined to get to Sam before things got any more screwed up.

XXX

Sam looked…bad.

After everything he'd been through, it felt a little pathetic that that was all Dean could come up with, but it was true. Sam just looked…bad, bad enough that Dean wondered if someone hadn't made a mistake somewhere, and he'd been gone five _years_ instead of five _days._

Sam's skin was pale, almost bone-white under a thin film of dirt. His hair was ragged and tangled and he was so thin that Dean was willing to bet every one of his ribs could be counted if someone lifted his shirt, his clothes loose-fitting, torn, and probably stolen.

Slowly, tentatively, he stepped closer to the bed, feeling three pairs of eyes boring into his back as he did so. Legs only an inch or so from the mattress, he looked down at his brother, and felt his face go almost as pale as Sam's with anger as he was able to make out the scattered bruises, the cut on Sam's head and the bandage on his arm.

Without thinking, he spun around to glare at Niko and Cal. _"What did you do?"_

Niko looked appraisingly at him. "What I had to. He was going to kill me and I defended myself. I patched him up, and his body will heal quickly. I do apologize for hurting him, but not for my purpose. I only wanted to protect my family."

Dean's gaze flicked to Cal, who looked a little embarrassed but met Dean's gaze defiantly, daring him to berate Niko further. After a moment, Dean lowered his eyes and turned back to Sam, saying quietly, "I just wish it hadn't gone that far."

"I understand," Niko said sincerely. "I can't imagine what you're going through right now." Then he looked at Cal, and something flashed across both their faces for a second before Niko said softly, "Then again, maybe I can."

"When do you think he'll wake up?" Dean asked, changing the uncomfortable subject.

Niko shrugged. "I hit him fairly hard, and I think he was skirting the edge as it was. He may only be catching up on sleep, and if that's the case, it could be hours. Nevertheless, I think we should come up with a plan quickly, to subdue him if he wakes early."

Dean shrugged. "I'm up for anything as long as it doesn't involve you hurting him more."

Niko smiled a little. "I don't think that will be necessary. We have some sedatives stored away for emergencies, if you'll give us permission to use them."

"You keep sedatives lying around?"

Niko shrugged. "You never know then they may come in handy."

"Well, I don't have a problem with you using them on him—once. Don't wanna risk the side effects." Slowly, Dean reached out and brushed a hand lightly over Sam's bandaged arm, sighing inwardly when his brother didn't react in the slightest. Then he sat down on the bed, barely managing to fold himself in the remaining space, and said, "So what now?"

"Now," Niko said, sitting cross-legged in the other bed, his hands resting on his knees while Cal sat down with his back against the wall with his legs drawn up to his chest, and Bobby collapsed into the only remaining chair. "You tell us what happened to bring us all here."

XXX

"Well," Cal said matter-of-factly after Dean finished the story, "your life kinda sucks."

Dean sighed and brushed his hand over Sam's arm again. "Tell me about it. Now what're we gonna do about it?" He was silent for a second, then suddenly turned to Bobby and asked, "You called Missouri yet?"

Bobby shook his head. "Still too late there. And _really_ still too late here. I—"

The ringing of his phone blasted through whatever he was going to say next, and Dean smirked a little as he jumped about two feet before going to grab it. He glanced at the caller ID, and his eyes widened. "Well, speak o' the devil…"

"What's up?" Dean asked, but Bobby silenced him with a single look as he opened the phone.

"Hey, Mo," the older hunter said, sounding a little shaken.

The whole room heard Missouri's reply as Bobby held the phone away from his ear to protect his ears from the psychic's piercing chastisements—all of which centered around Bobby's chosen nickname for her.

"Mo…Missouri…can I get a word in?" Bobby asked in vain. He looked very much as if he wanted to yell, but didn't quite dare, and Dean almost—almost—felt like smiling.

Meanwhile, Missouri's voice rang clearly throughout the room.

"And _why_ didn't you just _call_ me? You been sittin' there trying to decide whether or not to _wake me up_ when you shoulda known good and well that I needed to be there helpin' Sam this whole time!"

"Well, I was worried that—"

"I know what you were worryin' about, and I'm tellin' you you're a fool, that's what. You scared of this old woman? Is that it?"

"_Yes," _Bobby said, loudly enough for her to at least hear him. Still, for all the good it did, he might as well have stayed silent—Missouri went right on ranting, simply changing her speech to respond to the reply.

"Well, that's smart of you, I'll give you that, but you made a stupid choice, Bobby Singer. The only reason I'm takin' it easy on you—"

"This is taking it easy?" Bobby asked weakly.

"—Is because I'm on my way there right now and I'd rather tear you a new one in person. So—"

"Wait. You're on your way?" Bobby asked. "Already?"

"What do you mean, _already?_ I been on the road for two days, ever since I sensed there was trouble with the Winchester boys. I'm only a couple hours out now. Are the boys with you now?"

Dean was way too tired to bristle at the word "boys."

"Yeah," Bobby replied to her question.

"Well, I'd ask what happened, but I'd rather wait 'til I can see you. Keep those boys safe until I get there."

"You don't have to tell me that, Mo."

Her voice softened very slightly for the first time as she said, "I know. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. See ya," Bobby replied.

"What was _that_ all about?" Cal asked the minute Bobby hung up.

"Missouri," Dean answered before Bobby could. "She's a psychic—a damn powerful one. If anyone can help Sam…" He took a deep breath and looked back down at his brother. Sam slept on, oblivious, probably more peaceful now than he had been in a long time.

"If anyone can, it's her."

XXX

Sam woke up before Missouri could get there, and wasn't that just the way Dean's luck had been running lately?

His waking wasn't by any means peaceful. It involved a lot of screaming, a lot of thrashing, and a couple of attempts to murder anyone within five feet—which was pretty much the whole room—before Dean threw himself on his brother to restrain him.

By the time Niko managed to use what Cal called his "super awesome ninja skills" to sedate the younger Winchester _without_ snapping the needle, Dean was more shaken than he'd been in a long time, and Bobby was grouchier than ever. But Sam was peaceful and quiet again, so that was really all that mattered.

"I don't get it," Dean said quietly after everything had settled down and he was again sitting at his brother's side.

"What?" Niko, who had also resumed his same position, asked.

"I don't get why he attacked me like that. I mean, it's because of me that he got this way in the first place, so…why isn't my being here making it any better?"

Bobby shrugged. "Could be that he doesn't know what's going on around him—that he's just reacting to the feeling of people around him without knowing who they are. Or it could be that he thinks it's just a trick—or he could just have so much in his head right now that he can't separate the reality from the visions. I dunno, I'm no psychic. You'll have to ask Missouri when she gets here."

"In the meantime," Niko said pointedly, "we should try and get some sleep. You two look exhausted and Cal…well, Cal just gets very cranky if he feels he's being deprived of his full twenty-three hours."

Cal made a face at him, but Dean shook his head adamantly. "No. You're right, you guys…should sleep. But I'm staying with Sam."

Niko sighed in exasperation, and Cal grinned at him. "See? That's what you look like. Annoying, huh?"

"You are simply brimming with comedic lines today, little brother," Niko said, pointing implacably at the space on the bed beside him. Cal grumbled a little, but he got up and walked to the bed anyway, and was quite literally asleep the minute his head touched the pillow.

"Wow," Dean said in admiration. "Wish I had that kind of control over him." He tilted his head toward Sam a little, feeling a twinge when Sam still didn't respond.

Niko shrugged. "He's much more stubborn than he seems, actually—to the point that he can be impossible to deal with. It's only that he never argues against sleep." He looked around at his brother, and a small smile softened his face before he turned back to Dean. "Don't worry. You'll soon be able to argue with yours again."

Dean tried to look confident, but he was pretty sure he failed miserably. Niko didn't comment on it, though—simply rested his hands on his knees in what looked like a meditative pose, closed his eyes, and began to breathe deeply as the room went silent once more.

XXX

It was almost an hour later when someone finally knocked on the door. Dean didn't move from his spot on the bed as Niko got up to let Missouri in, but he did turn to greet the psychic as she stepped inside.

"Hey, Missouri," he said. "Thanks for coming."

"Not a problem," she replied, turning to Niko and saying, "Honey, I just want to let you know that it's real nice of you to let these boys stay with you like this. I know it's real hard for you to trust anyone that much."

Niko's jaw tightened, but he nodded with no visible anger at her invasion of his mind and then went over to the bed and gave Cal a well-placed slap to the knee that had the younger Leandros brother sitting up with an indignant splutter.

Missouri, meanwhile, greeted Bobby without berating him _too_ much, and then went to sit beside Dean on the bed. She looked sympathetically at Dean. "Oh, Dean, stop it. It's not your fault—you couldn't have helped it. It's certainly not the first time one of you has been captured by evil."

Dean nodded and said tightly, "Yeah. Just…make this better, okay?"

She smiled. "That's a tall order. Then again, you Winchesters were never above tall orders, were you?" When he didn't answer, she sighed slightly and said, "I need some room. Go stand over there." She pointed to the space between the two beds, and Dean reluctantly obeyed. Once he was far enough away, Missouri looked away and focused solely on Sam, reaching out to grip Sam's hand in her own and closing her eyes.

The room fell utterly silent, everyone watching with varying degrees of anxiety while Missouri did…whatever. Finally, though, Missouri opened her eyes and let go of Sam, looking around at the rest of them.

"Well?" Dean asked, a little more harshly than he'd intended.

Missouri sighed. "His mind is jumbled. It's just a big swirl of panic and reaction—he really has no plans, no ideas, no _thoughts._ That's what's causing him to lash out—he feels people around, and no matter who they are, he sees them as a threat and…attacks. It's just base instinct. Unfortunately, he's strong—stronger than he's ever been before, physically and psychically, because he's acting on pure instinct."

"Yeah, but what does that _mean?"_ Dean asked impatiently.

"It means that with my personality, I only frighten him when I try to enter his mind. I feel harsh to him, and because he doesn't recognize me, I scare him. It's lucky he's sedated—he can't control himself because of that, or he might have hurt me." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't help him."

Dean stared at her blankly, her words making no sense all of a sudden. The world seemed to be spinning around him, as if he was on a really bad roller coaster. Bobby said something, but his voice was distant, faraway, and incomprehensible.

Then the room seemed to tilt, and the next thing Dean knew, everything had gone black.


	6. A Meeting of the Minds

Chapter 5

Bobby grunted as he and Cal finally got Dean settled on the bed opposite the one Sam was lying on. He straightened with a sigh and rubbed his left shoulder, frowning down at the unconscious hunter. "Idgit…"

"You're both idiots," Missouri said sternly, her eyes snapping fire as she checked Dean's pulse one more time. "How long has it been since you two have slept?"

Bobby shrugged. "I caught a nap for a while when we were researching, but I haven't seen Dean so much as close his eyes since I came here. Doubt he's gotten a wink of sleep since he went down."

Missouri rolled her eyes. "Well, his body's certainly trying to make up for it now. And _you_," she continued, pointing implacably to the empty space on Dean's new bed. "You sit down before you fall down."

"Shouldn't we wake him up, though?" Cal asked, looking unruffled, and maybe a little amused, by the recent chain of events.

Missouri shook her head. "No. He needs rest, and this will be easier without him hovering, anyway."

"He's not gonna be happy when he wakes up," Bobby warned, leaning against the headboard of the bed.

"Then he can take it up with me," Missouri replied. "I might even enjoy that a little bit."

Bobby shrugged. "Your call, Mo."

"Always, and don't you forget it."

"Well, what about him, then?" Cal interrupted, gesturing toward Sam.

"Cal," Niko said without opening his eyes, still maintaining his pose of peaceful meditation, only on the floor this time. "You might want to consider taking a more polite tone." Despite the might, there was no hint of suggestion about it.

Cal rolled his eyes. "I'm just _concerned."_

"And I'm sure that your desire to have your bed back has _nothing_ to do with it."

"Ya know," Cal said, looking wounded, "it hurts that after all this time you still doubt my intentions."

"I never doubted your intentions—only your selflessness," Niko replied.

Cal was about to respond when Missouri turned on them both and snapped, "You two, zip it. I don't want to hear another word out of either of you unless it involves getting these boys out of this."

Cal looked completely taken aback, and even Niko opened his eyes and dropped his pose of peace and serenity. It certainly wasn't the first time Cal had heard such an order—being the youngest and all—but neither of the brothers could seem to remember the last time anyone had spoken to Niko that way.

But Niko only looked surprised for a moment. Then he inclined his head—not in submission, never that, but rather in acknowledgement. Then he said, "So there is still a way to save Sam, then."

"Of course there is. There always is. I just haven't thought of it yet. Now be quiet so I can work on that."

Cal made a strangled sound, and at first everyone present thought he was angry for the way Niko was being spoken to. But then they looked, and saw that his face was turning a deep shade of red and he was shaking—with laughter.

Without so much as uncrossing his legs, Niko reached over and pulled his brother's legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

"Think," Niko said without looking at him, and then closed his eyes again and resumed his meditation—or…you know, whatever.

Missouri raised her eyebrows at Bobby, who shrugged in reply and lay flat on the bed, assuming a thoughtful expression as he contemplated their problem.

But no one in the room was even able to sink too deeply into their thoughts before Niko seemed to hit on something.

"Excuse me, Miss Mosley," he said with careful politeness.

"Missouri'll be just fine," she said.

"Well, then, correct me if I'm wrong, Missouri, but didn't you say that the problem with you helping Sam is that your personality bars the way?"

"You don't need to make it sound so insulting, but basically, yes."

"So does that mean that a different personality would be able to do something to help?"

She looked confused. "What are you babbling about?"

"What I'm saying is, if there were another psychic with another kind of personality—a gentler one, one that wouldn't rub quite so harshly against Sam's consciousness—wouldn't you be able to help this psychic do what needs to be done to bring Sam out of this?"

"I don't know," Missouri said dubiously. "It's only a theory that I'm the problem, first of all. Second of all, I don't know that that kind of thing can be taught. Third of all, and most difficult, where can we get another psychic, who just happens to have the right personality, who believes us and is actually willing and able to help, at a moment's notice?"

Cal grinned slowly and shared a knowing look with his brother. "Well, I don't know about that other stuff, but I'm pretty sure we can help you with the last one."

XXX

_The pictures still flashed through Sam's head, but he couldn't quite focus on them. It was as if everything had been muted, dulled—including the sense of urgency, the urge to kill and kill and kill until anything that could possibly cause any pain was utterly eradicated._

_In other words, to kill until he was the only one left._

_That urge had hurt—a lot. Each time he killed, it had felt _wrong_—but not as wrong as _not_ killing. Not killing seemed…dangerous. It felt like he had to kill everything before everything killed him._

_Now, though, the urge was lessened, only it didn't make him feel better._

_It made him feel empty._

_It made him feel alone again._

XXX

Georgina King was a young girl with an old mind.

That was really the only way to describe her. Her face was young, her body small, but her eyes, her voice, and her words betrayed wisdom beyond her years—maybe beyond the years of any living human.

Missouri looked at her and knew immediately that this girl was of a completely different cut. This was a person who didn't even have to tap into anything in order to use her abilities—it seemed that she simply _lived_ inside the psychic realm, and that any step she made into the outside world was purely accidental.

Watching her, Missouri felt something that she didn't ever remember feeling toward any living creature. She felt awed.

But then George's eyes swept the room and landed on Cal, and when she smiled it was like she was able to shed all of that. Suddenly she wasn't a larger-than-life _power—_she was simply a teenage girl with a crush. Suddenly she was just a person, so much so that Missouri wondered if she'd just imagined everything else.

"Niko says you need my help."

She looked at Missouri as she said it, leaving no doubt that she knew almost exactly what was going on. Then she looked from Sam to Dean, and her face became sad. "These are the brothers you met after Cal was kidnapped." She sighed. "I had hoped to meet them under better circumstances than this."

Cal shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Well, when you bring Sam out of this, you two can talk. He's a psychic, too, you know." She smiled at him, and he looked embarrassed and muttered, "Of course you know. He was pretty interested when I told him about you—I think he'd like talking to you…" He trailed off rather lamely and looked away.

But George only looked fondly at him and said, "Well, then, we'll just have to make sure he can do that, won't we?" Then she turned away from him and toward Missouri. "I'm afraid I really don't know how to do this, though. I assume I have to enter his mind, but I don't know what to do after that."

Missouri shrugged. "I don't have a clue, either, honey. We'll just have to wing it. Why don't you start by seeing if you can even get in?"

Looking thoughtful, but not nervous, George turned away from all of them and went to seat herself next to Sam. She reached out and took his hand, closed her eyes, and began to breathe deeply and evenly.

Five seconds later she opened them again and said, with complete and utter composure, "I can get in. It's actually pretty easy, since on some level he wants someone to go in with him—if it's the right person."

"So are you the right person, then?" Missouri asked impatiently.

She smiled. "Of course." It wasn't boasting—it was just facts. "So what do I do?"

Missouri sat down in the room's only chair—which was, thanks to Niko's firm decision that Cal should sit on the floor, actually available—and leaned back into it. "I'm not sure. I've done this about as many times as you have."

"Well, then, why don't you just tell me exactly what's going on here? I've got a pretty good idea what's the matter, but it might help if I had details."

Missouri looked incredulously at her and wondered dumbly, _What _is_ this girl?_

Niko, though, seemed to be used to these sudden declarations, and he immediately launched into a quick summary of the events that had led them all to crush themselves in this apartment at this moment. George listened with an expression of mild interest, but didn't speak until Niko finished. Then she said, "Well, his abilities certainly work differently than mine, I can tell you that. It sounds like there's some kind of…off switch. Or at least a mute button. Maybe if I can find that…"

She subsided into inaudible murmurs then, her thumb rubbing circles over Sam's hand as she considered it.

"Um…George?" Cal asked, sounding uncertain.

"Yes, Cal?" she asked absently.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course. I'm just trying to figure out how best to find the volume button."

"Yeah, 'cause _that_ makes a lot of sense."

"It does make sense, actually. If I can find the volume button, I can make it so Sam's visions aren't so loud that they take over his mind. I can lower the volume so that he can't hear it most of the time, and then I can find the channel button so I can change it to the real world. See?"

"…No."

"Well, that's all right. It does sound a little strange, I guess. I think I'll just have to dive in and try it. Do you think that's okay, Missouri?"

"Honey, I don't know," Missouri said. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. I'm pretty useless here, I can see now. Two-day drive and the best I can do is sit here and watch…but I think you should do what you think is best, for what it's worth."

"Don't worry," George said. "You're many things, but you could never be useless—I already know that about you."

Missouri shrugged. "Well, might as well get this over with, then. We'll be right here when you get done."

"I knew that," she said with another smile. "Try to get some sleep, though—all of you, even if you have to do this in shifts. You're all exhausted, you know."

"Yeah," Missouri said, her eyes flashing at Bobby, who looked sheepish, and then to Dean, who hadn't even stirred yet. "We know."

George nodded in satisfaction as if a great problem had just been solved, and then turned her attention to Sam again.

XXX

_Sam was wondering if he was ever going to feel the urge again when he felt the new presence._

_It wasn't malevolent—that was the first thing he noticed. It wasn't harsh, it wasn't irritated—it didn't hurt like the other one had. It felt…benevolent. Kind. And it…_cared_—like it genuinely wanted to make him feel better, and like it would be there for as long as it took to make that happen._

_Sam shrank away from it, recoiling from the warmth. It just felt so _foreign_ after all this time. And it was a trick anyway, of course. The warmth couldn't be real—it didn't exist in the world anymore. Dean had taken it all with him when he left. Sam knew that, and he knew he couldn't trust the presence._

_But he wanted to. Oh, he _wanted_ to, and it was the hardest thing he'd ever done to retreat._

_He did it, though. He withdrew as far as he could, managing to separate himself from the presence by a good margin._

_The presence didn't go away, though. It stayed, never so much as flickering, its patience never faltering._

_Maybe it really did plan to stay forever._

_Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing._

XXX

**Two Hours Later**

"I can't believe you didn't wake me up!"

Missouri rolled her eyes. "I see you're going to be mature about this, as usual."

Dean glared at her. "Don't mother me, Missouri. You let some stranger start digging around in my brother's mind and you didn't even bother talking to me about it first."

"And what would you have said if we did?" Missouri snapped, quite obviously losing her patience with him. "You listen to me, boy—I want you to stop acting like you're the only one who cares about the outcome of this. I couldn't help him, we were running out of options, and this girl could very well be our last hope. I—_we_—took a chance. The same one you would have taken if we'd asked. The end was exactly the same, so just put aside your pride and just leave it be."

Dean glowered for a few more seconds, but then all the fight just seemed to drain out of him, and he sank back down onto the bed he'd vacated in his anger, and ran a tired hand over his face. "I just don't like the idea of putting Sam in more danger."

"I know," Missouri said, gentler now. "I understand. But George isn't dangerous. Niko and Cal can promise you that—and if you don't trust them, trust me. I'm a psychic too, you know."

Dean smiled weakly at her. "How could I forget?"

"Well, you couldn't if you had any kind of sense," Missouri replied. "Look, I know there's no way you're going back to sleep, but you lay down right now, you here? There's nothing you can do here, anyways. Nothing any of us can do but wait."

"Why don't _you_ sleep, then?" Dean countered.

Missouri reached across the space between them and slapped his knee. "Don't take that tone with me, boy. I'm a grown woman and I'll sleep when I want to sleep."

"Well, I'm a grown man," Dean said, and winced inwardly at the sheer childishness of the response.

Missouri seemed to feel the same way—she snorted and rolled her eyes. "Well, with mature adult arguments like that…"

Dean lay back down next to Bobby, who had conked out about half an hour before and was threatening to shake the apartment down with his snores. He turned over on his side so that he could keep an eye on Sam and this strange girl who looked as if she was asleep sitting up, but apparently was trying to help the younger Winchester.

His eyes stayed glued to Sam's face as he listened to the silence that was quickly becoming painfully familiar, and even though he was still unwilling to hope, there was a very tiny part of him that couldn't help silently begging Georgina King to do what no one else could seem to.

And an even tinier part that thought maybe, just maybe, this would work.

XXX

_It was a long time before the presence tried to get close to him again. It didn't leap at him, though—it didn't try to force him. It simply flicked at him, a placid, patient wisp of a thought that conveyed a sense of safety and one single word._

"Sam."

_Sam tried to back away again, and once again the presence let him, didn't try to follow him. But it still continued to speak to him, and it sounded…sad._

_He didn't want it to be sad. It didn't seem right. Something that carried this _feeling_ with it shouldn't be sad—it should be happy all the time._

_Sam wanted to make it happy, but at the same time he was afraid. He desperately wanted the kindness to be real, but…it had to be a trick. _

"Sam, please."

_It had to be a trick, because otherwise he'd been wrong…_

"Sam, I know you're afraid. I can feel that. I can feel that you're afraid, and sad, and you just want to hide. I know that, okay?"

_No, the presence couldn't know…it couldn't know, because if it did then it wasn't a trick, and it _had_ to be a trick…_

"But I'm here now, and I'll help you. You don't have to hide anymore."

_It had to be a trick, because if it wasn't, then there really was good in the world still and Dean _hadn't_ taken all of it with him and he'd done the killing for nothing…_

"You don't even have to do anything. You just have to stop trying to get away from me. If you do that, I can take the pictures away and bring you back to the world."

_But he wasn't sure he wanted to go back to the world, because he was alone there. All alone…_

"No, Sam. You won't be alone. Trust me. Just trust me. Dean's here, okay? Dean's with me."

_Now he _knew_ it was a trick. Dean was dead, so the presence was a trick. It was nice to have it confirmed…_

"Sam, stop it. Stop fighting. You're _hurting_ Dean, don't you understand that? Dean wants you to come back, and you're hurting him by not letting us help."

_No. Stop saying that. Stop saying he was hurting Dean, that was wrong. He _wasn't_ hurting Dean. This thing was just bad and saying so to hurt him…_

"Sam, I'm not bad. Can't you feel that? Can't you tell that I'm good? I know you can. You haven't doubted yourself this whole time—don't start now, when we need you to believe in yourself the most."

_But _no._ Sam refused to believe it. He wasn't hurting Dean, he just _wasn't_, it wasn't _possible._ He wasn't hurting Dean, he hadn't killed those people for nothing…it just _could not be.

"Sam, _please._ Please, just trust me. I'll make the pictures go away if you'll only let me. I'll make it go away and then you can see Dean. I _promise."_

_And no matter how much Sam wanted to, he couldn't disbelieve that promise._

XXX

Dean lost track of the number of hours that passed. He knew the sun rose, he knew everyone but him was catching sleep in increments, but he didn't really keep track of any of it. He just watched Sam and George, and waited, and wished a thousand times that there was a way for him to know what was going _on._

He was so busy thinking this and being angry that he almost missed the change.

It wasn't a big change, and if Dean hadn't been so determined to catch it he wouldn't have. But as it was, he noticed immediately—noticed the slight scrunching of Sam's forehead, the twitch of his nose, the slight toss of his head. They were all tell-tale signs of a genuine Sam Winchester Dreaming, only somewhat muted.

He almost stopped breathing, as if daring to take in air would destroy whatever fragile thing was happening right now. He didn't try to rouse anybody, either—he just watched and waited.

He didn't really know what was happening, but he could tell from George's slight frown that she was concentrating hard on something. Sam wasn't thrashing or anything, though, so apparently she wasn't hurting him.

Good. He didn't want to have to kill her—he didn't much fancy spending two weeks on his knees in this apartment scrubbing blood out of the carpet under one of Niko's fancy swords.

Sam whimpered a little. It was just the tiniest sound—barely anything at all—but it was there and it was the first sound he'd made that wasn't a scream and it was just _beautiful._

The next thing was a hand movement. He tightened his fingers around George's hand, his knuckles going white, and Dean marveled that George didn't even flinch even though Sam must be leaving bruises.

After the hand movement came a slight turning of the head—Sam rolled it to the side a little until he was facing Dean a little, as if he was seeking something.

And the entire time, George remained still as a statue, seeing her work through without thought to interruption, exhaustion, or any other worldly matters.

And suddenly, without any warning, without any further drama or emotion of pain, it was over. It was just…over, and George was opening her eyes and letting go of Sam and standing up and backing away.

For a moment, Dean couldn't make any sense of it. He couldn't understand why George was leaving the job unfinished.

Then he saw that Sam's eyes were open.

That was when the world stopped being there. It just became him and Sam. Sam, who was awake now. Sam, who hadn't gone away. Sam, who couldn't seem to figure out what was going on.

Sam…Sam, who needed him now.

Slowly, tentatively, Dean pushed himself to his feet and swayed over to the other bed. Sam's eyes followed him listlessly, as if he was waiting for something to happen.

Once he reached his destination, Dean collapsed to his knees next to the bed—lacking the strength to fit his frame on the mattress itself—and reached out to stroke some of Sam's hair off his forehead.

Sam's hand came up and locked around his wrist, hard enough to bruise. But Dean didn't flinch away—he just let Sam hang on while Sam looked for whatever he needed to reassure himself.

Sam studied him for a long time, and didn't even seem to notice everyone shifting and waking around the two of them. He just stared and stared, until finally he seemed to find what he was looking for.

And then Sam sort of hunched into himself, curling himself around Dean's hand and arm, and started crying, and it occurred to Dean how _wrong_ it was for Sam to be so damn broken when Dean was finally ready to feel whole again.

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, guys, I'm really not sure about this chapter. There's some parts I like about it and then some parts, like the end, that I just really can't seem to form an opinion on. So why don't you tell me _your_ opinions in nice, pretty reviews?_

_And on a whole other issue, how 'bout that Illinois earthquake, eh? I live right about on the Missouri/Illinois border, so we got it pretty big. _And_ those nice scientist guys who never seem to have anything good to say have started thinking that this 'quake is just the start of a big chain. So in other words, they say that we're pretty likely to get hit next here in Missouri—just a matter of time._

_I hate science._

_I love reviews, though. Have I mentioned that?_

_Yeah. It's about one in the morning here and I've been up since about 4:30. I apologize for any resulting incoherence._


	7. Half In, Half Out

Chapter 6

Dean knew he was going to have to ask later on. He was going to have to look the most incredible of gift horses directly in the mouth and go ask Georgina King how she'd done what she'd done. He was going to have to ask her, and he was also going to have to ask Sam what the _hell, _even though he wasn't going to like to hear it.

And there were other things to do, too. They would have to go to the clinic and make sure Niko hadn't actually broken any of Sam's bones, they would have to get Bobby and Missouri their own rooms once they finally got back to the motel, they would have to figure out exactly what to do about the…the murders.

But Dean didn't want to think about the murders right now, and none of those other things seemed terribly urgent right now. Not when Sam was still sobbing like his heart was breaking, still curled into a smaller ball than he should have naturally made, still so. Damn. _Broken._

"Shh," he whispered into Sam's hair, stamping out any flicker of embarrassment toward Niko, Cal, Missouri, George and Bobby, who were all still standing around watching them. They all mattered about as much as his pride right now, anyway. "Shh, it's all gonna be okay, I'm right here. I'm right here, Sammy."

Far from helping, though, the gentle words and the nickname seemed to undo Sam even more, causing his sobs and shaking to intensify and his grip to tighten around Dean's wrist.

"Hey, Sam, hey, you need to calm down, all right? You gotta catch your breath or you're gonna pass out…"

Sam shook his head, but Dean wasn't sure whether it was denial, disbelief, or just some random contraction of muscles causing his neck to spasm. His sobs didn't slow.

Dean sighed a little and tried a different tack. Turning to the others, he said, "Can we have some time alone?"

It was kind of a cheesy line, and normally he would have kicked his own butt for it, but right now the world was kind of upside down, anyway, so what did one more wacky thing matter?

And it worked, anyway. The five of them filed out of the room without a word, and Dean gave another small sigh, of relief this time. The room seemed so much _bigger_ now that it was holding two instead of seven. He turned back to Sam then, but he didn't say anything this time. He just settled for remaining on his knees beside the bed, letting Sam cling and cry and just waiting.

Right now it seemed like the only thing he could do, but that wouldn't last.

_I'm gonna fix this…_

XXX

A half hour or so later, Sam had finally started to calm down—or possibly he'd just run out of tears. Either way, though, the end remained the same. Sam went limp against the mattress, still holding onto Dean's wrist, still hiding his face from view. He was trembling, only now there was exhaustion threaded in through the pain and the grief.

After another few minutes, Dean finally spoke. "Look, Sam, I know we have a lot to talk about, but we need to get to the motel first, okay?"

Sam didn't react to his words except to shake harder, and Dean's worry spiked another notch. He could understand Sam's grief, but what was with this _silence?_

Well, he'd have plenty of time to figure it out once it was just him and Sam, alone and secure in the familiarity of a crap motel room.

Shaking his head and letting out another small sigh, Dean started to push himself to his feet and go make the arrangements—only to be jerked up short when Sam's fingers tightened like a vice and pulled him back down again.

"Okay, okay," Dean said with a shaky chuckle, managing a weak smile even though Sam wasn't looking. "I won't go anywhere. You don't have to let go. We'll just do this together, okay?"

Dean thought for a moment, and then turned and called, "Hey, Bobby?"

It was like he blinked and Bobby was just _there_, his face all open concern and anxiety to help, to _do_ something.

"Hey, could you do me a favor?"

Bobby huffed in genuine, if tempered, irritation. "You have to ask, kid?"

Dean shrugged. "Can you call the motel and book a couple extra rooms for you and Missouri?"

"Sure, it's a done deal."

"And maybe ride with Missouri? I dunno if you can fit your old bones in the back of the Impala, and Sam seems to be having a little problem letting go of me."

"Yeah. Guess I shoulda brought the truck. You want us to go now?"

"That'd be good. I wanna get Sam back to the room as soon as I can."

"All right, then. I'll tell the rest of 'em."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said, and at his sincerity Bobby waved a hand and grunted in embarrassment, then left the room.

Dean watched him leave and then turned back to his brother, putting his free hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezing gently. "Sam, we need to go now. Do you think you can get up if I help you?"

For several moments, Dean thought Sam wasn't going to react at all, that he was going to have to somehow find a way to carry his younger and much taller brother out of the apartment and to the car. And right now, with every limb sore and practically numb from exhaustion, he didn't exactly relish that idea.

Finally, though, Sam nodded, a barely perceptible twitch of the head, and Dean felt a true smile break across his face.

"Good, Sammy. That's good."

Sam jerked sharply as he spoke, and after a second Dean realized it had to be a reaction to the nickname. _Huh. That's…interesting…_

But as tempting as it was, now was not the time to ponder further.

"Okay, then, Sam. Let's get you up, then, huh?"

Without waiting for a reply, Dean shifted his available arm so that it was firm around Sam's shoulders. Sam proved unsettlingly easy to lift, and Dean added one more thing to his to-do list: get some food into his brother as soon as humanly possible.

He didn't mention it then, though—he just got Sam into a seated position and then, as gently as he could, lifted him to his feet.

Sam staggered a little and then leaned heavily against him, his eyes fixed on his feet, and Dean slid an arm down around his waist to hold him up. Sam still wouldn't let go of his wrist, which made things slightly more difficult, but it was a tiny price to pay.

"Okay, kiddo. Let's get moving. _Slowly."_

Getting out to the Impala turned out to take even longer than he'd expected. Sam seemed weak as a newborn kitten, almost unable to stand under his own power even though apparently he'd been walking around and…oh, man, _killing_…just fine.

They did get there eventually, though, and Dean found himself having to shove Sam in first and follow almost instantly to avoid getting his shoulder jerked out of his socket by the implacable grip that by now had completely deadened all feeling in Dean's hand.

Sam still wasn't looking at him, though. He hadn't, not once since that time right after he'd woken up. He leaned his head forward, his hair obscuring his face, his shoulders hunched forward. Dean felt his heart wrench at the sight—Sam just looked so…_defeated._

But he wasn't. _They_ weren't. Maybe they had been, but now they were together again and they didn't have to be defeated anymore.

_I'm gonna fix this…_

XXX

Half an hour later, Dean finally had Sam in the motel room, and for the first time in years they were lying in the same bed—well, more like crushed together in the same bed with both of them in danger of falling off, but whatever.

Sam still wasn't talking, though. He wasn't talking, he wasn't looking anywhere but down, and he definitely wasn't indicating that he was planning to let go of Dean anytime soon. And, okay, so maybe Dean wished a little bit that he could take a shower, change his clothes, eat something, maybe stop neglecting basic hygiene.

Come to think of it, he wished more that he could find a way to make _Sam_ do all that, since the kid probably hadn't had bath that wasn't a sponge bath, a change of clothes other than the probably stolen ones he now wore, or any food not fed to him through a needle in almost a week.

But right now that didn't seem like an option. Right now, Sam was just too broken up for Dean to risk leaving him alone. He'd have to get Sam a little less freaked out first, he guessed.

The problem was, Sam just wasn't _reacting_ to anything right now. It was like when George had woken him up, he had remained half in whatever dream world he'd been in, and Dean couldn't figure out how to bring him out of it.

With another small sigh much like the ones he'd been giving all night, Dean reached up and combed his fingers through Sam's hair while he tried to figure out how to get his brother to talk to him. Sam moved a fraction of an inch closer in reaction to the touch, his forehead resting on Dean's shoulder, and Dean felt a small flicker of triumph.

"So how're you feeling, Sammy?"

It was about the stupidest question that could have come out of his mouth, but seriously, Dean had never _been_ in this situation before! He was lucky he'd managed to get anything out of his mouth at all.

Sam didn't answer, of course, but once again he did that peculiar startled, jerky movement that had been his reaction to his nickname ever since he'd first come back.

"What's the matter, kiddo?" Dean asked quietly, still brushing Sam's hair back. "Is it the name that's bothering you? Should I stop calling you that?"

That question finally got the reaction that Dean had hardly been hoping for. Sam shook his head almost violently against Dean's shoulder, his hand tightening on Dean's wrist, and he pushed himself even closer. Baffled, Dean stared down at the top of Sam's head and asked, "Then why do you act that way when I say it, huh? What's the matter, Sammy?"

Sam jerked again and buried his face in Dean's jacket, shaking his head again.

"Sam, please," Dean whispered, finally letting some of his worry and desperation leak through. "I don't know what's going on with you. I need you to talk to me, okay? _Please."_

Sam didn't say anything, but his grip loosened and he shifted so that he wasn't quite so close, and Dean figured maybe that was all he could ask for.

The silence stretched some more while Dean tried to figure out what to say, how to draw Sam out of his shell.

"I…"

Dean jumped a little, way more startled than he should have been, and stared down at Sam in amazement. "Sam? Sammy?"

Sam twitched a little and then lifted his head. His eyes met Dean's, and Dean felt a twinge. He just looked so _lost…_

Then Sam opened his mouth, licked his lips a little, and frowned in concentration. A moment later, he finally spoke again, his voice a bare, raspy shadow of itself, unused to speaking and choked with emotion.

"I missed hearing that."

Dean managed a small smile. "Yeah, well, I kinda missed saying it."

Sam looked up at him and said, "How long can you stay?"

Dean stared down at him, his mind blank as he tried to work out what Sam meant. Then it dawned on him, and he said, "Oh, Sammy, no. It's not like that. This isn't just some visit. I'm staying, okay?"

Sam looked confused then. "But you died."

"No, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "I know that's what it looked like, but I wasn't dead. Look, it's a really long story and I don't think you can last through it, but…I promise I'm not going anywhere. I _promise._ Okay?"

"Promise you're not a demon?"

Dean frowned. "Huh? A demon? Sam, if you thought I was a demon, even a little bit, then what's with the closeness?"

Sam looked down again, his reply barely a whisper. "Because I wanted to pretend."

Dean rolled his eyes a little—trying to pry information out of Sam tonight was like trying to shift a mountain of granite. "What do you mean, Sam? What did you want to pretend?"

"That you were really here. Even if you weren't really."

Strangely, that made more sense than it didn't. "So even if it was just a demon pretending to be me, you didn't mind as long as you could keep telling yourself it was me."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. But it is you, so I don't have to pretend. Right?"

"Yeah," Dean said softly. "Right."

Sam didn't smile, but the lines around his mouth faded almost entirely and he relaxed a little more. "That's good…"

"Yeah, it is. And since it's good and I'm staying and everything, you think you could let go of my arm now?"

Sam looked down at the arm in question and had the decency to turn a little red. "I'm sorry…"

"Don't be. I get it, I do. But my hand's pretty much dead and I'd kinda like to be able to use it after tonight."

Sam continued to look down at his hand for a second, frowning again in concentration, until finally he managed to pry himself from Dean's arm. Dean winced as his hand started tingling as the blood rushed back into it. He flexed it in hopes of making the tingles subside faster, and then after a minute he dropped it to his side and turned his attention back to Sam.

"Good, Sammy. That was good."

If Sam resented being talked to like he was five, he didn't show it. He just leaned his head into Dean's shoulder again and breathed, "You're still here. I let go and you're still here."

Dean ran his hand through Sam's hair again and said, "Told you. I'm not going anywhere."

Sam blinked slowly and then said, "Dean, where'd you go?"

"I told you, Sam, later, okay? We'll talk about it later."

"But…I feel like I should know. It's just all…fuzzy."

"That's all right, Sammy. You've been through a lot. We'll talk about it tomorrow. I think you need to get some sleep now."

"Sleep?"

"Yeah. You know, that thing where you close your eyes for a while and then you open them and it's all light outside? Sleep."

He could practically hear Normal Sam's exasperated reply. _"I know what sleep is, Dean."_ This Sam, though, just looked vaguely worried and said, "Are you gonna sleep, too?"

"Well, _yeah._ Obviously. You've been running me ragged lately, kiddo."

Sam ignored that last part. "Just…don't go."

Dean wasn't sure whether he meant not to leave again or just not to go to the other bed, but either way his answer would have been the same. "I'm staying right here, Sam. Just go to sleep."

As if the words were some sort of spell, Sam closed his eyes immediately, his body giving into his exhaustion entirely and relaxing into sleep.

Dean, though, found himself unable to close his own eyes quite yet. He just kept staring down at his brother, absorbing the sight of his brother. His brother, who was here. His brother, who was finally talking to him. His brother_,_ who he was going to fix if it took up the next ten years.

His brother, who wasn't leaving Dean anymore than Dean was leaving him.

His face softening into a smile, Dean slid down until his head rested on the pillow—feeling Sam shift so that his head could remain on Dean's shoulder—and closed his eyes to sleep.

XXX

Dean came to full wakefulness with a start and noticed immediately that something was missing. In his disorientation, he wasn't able to pin it right away, but it was still only a couple of seconds before he managed to figure it out.

_Sam._

Panicked, Dean slid out of bed and looked around frantically, looking for any sign of his brother. Sam wouldn't have left, he _couldn't_ have, there was no way he could have gone nuts again, he was _fine,_ he had to be here…

_Sam…_

A small sound reached him then—kind of like a little whimper mixed with a sob. He looked around again, this time more carefully, and this time he caught a small movement in the corner of the room, behind the other bed.

He didn't even bother walking around—he just leapt over the mattress and landed in front of Sam, who was sitting with his back against the wall, his head bent until his forehead touched his pulled-up knees, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Sammy?" he whispered, reaching out to rest a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Sam jumped, his head shooting up, his eyes meeting Dean's. He looked…panicked. And lost. And in so much _pain._

His voice, when he spoke, was still raw with lack of use, with emotion—and now, with fear.

"I killed them, Dean. I killed them all."

* * *

_Author's Note: Wow. This was an interesting chapter to write. I went through like three versions of the beginning before I finally settled on that one. Hope it was the right one to go with…let me know, will you? Ya know, in reviews and stuffs?  
_

_Oh, and one more thing. I'm not _entirely_ sure when the next chapter will be up. I'm going to Florida on May 2, and even though we're supposed to have wireless down there, my access will probably be a little iffy. I'll have it up as soon as I possibly can, though. _


	8. A Little Conversation

Chapter 7

Dean stared down at his brother and tried to figure out what he was going to do when Sam woke up. All he really wanted to do was just _sleep,_ but he only had a limited amount of time before he would have to actually deal with the horrible words Sam had spoken, and he wanted to have a game plan.

Beside him, Sam slept, his face mostly shadowed and difficult to make out in the darkness. The sleep was partly drug-induced, although exhaustion probably had a lot to do with the depth of his slumber. The kid would probably be pretty pissed when he woke up—Dean had told him that the pills had only been aspirin, and Sam still wasn't questioning anything and had downed them instantly.

But then again, maybe Sam wouldn't even figure it out, considering how confused he'd been.

Maybe he wouldn't even remember telling Dean about the killings…

Oh, he wanted to hope so. He wanted so much to hope that Sam would just forget about killing those people, at least until he was strong enough to deal with it. But that kind of thing just didn't fade away, and Sam was _Sam, _after all—he would torture himself over killing a squirrel, much less a human being.

And if Dean wanted to help him deal at all, he would have to have a game plan.

Sam stirred a little, a little line appearing between his eyebrows, and Dean immediately began to stroke his hair, keeping it up until Sam's sleep deepened again. Then he looked back up at the ceiling and heaved a small sigh.

The last few days had pretty much been an unmitigated disaster, but it had all seemed to come to a head when Sam had made his pronouncement a couple of hours before. He'd looked so totally, absolutely _exhausted_, like he was just done dealing with his life, like he wanted to lie down on the floor and cry or collapse on the bed and sleep or, oh, God, _die…_

But Dean could fix that, too. He _had_ to fix it, because the alternative didn't even bear thinking about, ever, for any reason. It would be fixed, taken care of, and Sam would be _fine._ Would be _normal_ again.

Dean refused to accept anything less.

XXX

"I had a bad dream."

Sam sounded so much like a five-year-old when he said that, Dean thought with a small, humorless smile. So much like a five-year-old, but there was nothing young or simple about what was happening to them now.

"What was your dream about?" he asked, watching Sam as he pulled on a clean shirt. He had taken advantage of Sam's sleep-muzzled mind to change clothes, and Sam didn't panic _too _obviously when he walked the three whole feet to the dresser. That was encouraging, even though when Dean went back to lie down next to him, Sam latched back onto him just as firmly as he had before.

"I dreamed I was throwing people. Two boys and a girl. And then I dreamed I was killing people. Stabbing them. Two boys and a girl again. They were bleeding a lot. And then I dreamed I was beating up someone. A boy. I think he was my friend in my dream, too."

Sam fell silent then, apparently confused again after saying so much at once, and Dean didn't say anything, either, so there was silence in the room for a long time.

"It wasn't just a dream, was it?"

Dean considered lying, covering, changing the subject, _anything_, but in the end, he just felt too exhausted, and besides, what good would it do, anyway?

"No, Sammy."

"I killed people, didn't I?"

"It wasn't you, Sam."

"Was I possessed?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Do you know why I did it?"

"I think I do, yeah."

"Why?"

"You were just…angry. And scared. And sad. You weren't yourself, Sam."

"Was it because you went away?"

"Yes, Sam."

"Will you tell me what happened now?"

Dean stared down at his brother and once again contemplated lying. It would have been so much easier. But right now deceiving Sam would be way too easy, and way too much like deceiving a small child.

"Yeah, Sam, I'll tell you."

XXX

He didn't tell Sam about the demon who had helped him.

He knew he should, felt horrible for withholding the information, wished that he could use Sam's awesome brain to figure out the mystery, but…well, Ruby had told him not to. Told him _firmly_, and he guessed he really did owe her. Owed her his life, actually—not to mention Sam's. Keeping her secret was the very least he could do.

So Dean left Ruby out of the story, managing to twist things so that it looked like he'd escaped through sheer willpower. Normally he never would've gotten away with such a lame and obvious ploy, but right now Sam's cognitive skills weren't exactly at their best and he didn't challenge the story.

Of course, he didn't say anything else, either. Long after Dean's rambling story came to a close, Sam lay silently on his half of the bed, resting on his side and staring up at his big brother, his eyes nothing but two deep pools of pain.

"Sam?" Dean asked after awhile, unable to keep the concern from his voice. "What're you thinking?"

Sam shook his head a little and turned his head so that his forehead rested on Dean's shoulder, hiding his face from view.

"Sam, c'mon. Don't do that. Just..._talk_ to me."

Sam looked up at him a little and said, "I don't know what to say."

"Whaddya mean?"

"It's just…you were in _hell._ But you're just the same as ever. And I couldn't handle even being _here._"

"Oh, Sam, no. Don't think that way. I didn't _have_ to have any sort of real strength. That place wasn't _hellish_ at all. It was just gray and empty and _boring._ They didn't even touch me, remember? But you…well, you had to be here alone. Without me. And with 24/7 visions flashing through your head—it's amazing you even _survived._"

"But I killed people."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. I know you did."

"I killed four people."

"I know. And I know there's nothing I can do to make that okay. But I never blamed you, not for one second, Sam."

"I know." _But I do._

The words remained unspoken, but Dean heard them loud and clear, and for a minute there was just an awkward silence.

It was Sam, surprisingly, who changed the subject. "Cal and Niko found me."

Dean assumed it was a question, but everything Sam said since he'd woken up the first time had been so simple, so flat, that it was kind of hard to tell. He answered anyway, though, just to keep the conversation going before Sam shut down again.

"Yeah. They found you, took you home, and called me." He didn't mention the fact that Cal and Sam had beaten the crap out of each other beforehand—what was the point? "And then I called Missouri and Cal and Niko brought in their own psychic, and we just had ourselves a regular reunion."

"Are we going to see them before we leave?"

"Well, yeah, if you want to. Especially since I dunno when we _are_ leaving."

"Aren't we going soon?"

"We're not going anywhere until you're better," Dean said calmly. Sam opened his mouth, but he continued before his brother could get a word in. "And that means when _I_ say you're better."

"We have jobs."

"The jobs can wait, Sam. This is the important thing right now. You hear me?"

Sam didn't agree, but he didn't protest, either, so Dean put a check in the victory column.

"Besides, I can do some hunts here. This city is overloaded with 'em, anyway. I can team up with Cal and Niko. And you can talk to George King about that whole psychic thing she's got going."

Sam nodded against his shoulder. "I'd like that."

"Okay, then that settles that. I'll call Cal and Niko later and tell 'em about it later. I know it's not the greatest motel, but maybe we can move in a few days."

Sam shrugged a little. "This is okay."

"Well, yeah, but it's not great." Dean shrugged. "Well, we'll blow up that bridge when we come to it."

That drew a small chuckle out of Sam, but it cut off quickly, and Sam looked surprised at himself for uttering such a sound. Dean looked down at him in amazement, and then grinned.

"Wow, Sammy, I know you're kind of a humorless geek and all, but is it really _that_ shocking when you laugh?"

Sam stared up at him for a minute, then smiled. And not even a tiny quirking of the lips—his teeth actually flashed for a second before disappearing back into the solemn expression he'd adapted since returning to his brother.

So it wasn't perfect. But it was a smile, and Dean felt like maybe he _could_ fix this, after all.

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, so there's one more chapter. An epilogue, actually. But that's not all we're gonna see of this wonderful Sam/Dean/Cal/Niko team, because I decided—completely last minute—to make a sequel._

_So. Yeah. Stay tuned for that! And for the next chapter!_

_Oh, and, uh, P.S. _**shuffles feet sheepishly** _I have a story here with the file name tempspn. Someone sent it to me to beta, but I've gotten a few requests and I'm not sure who it belongs to. So if you're reading this and recognize that name, please let me know...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! _


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Bobby, I know you wanna see him. I get it. But I just don't think he's ready."

Bobby huffed impatiently. "Yeah, that's what Missouri said."

"Wait, _Missouri? _Has she been eavesdropping?" Dean asked, his voice rising before he could stop it. Next to him, Sam twitched a little, frowning in his sleep and turning his head toward his brother's irritated voice. Dean glanced over and immediately lowered his voice, reaching out to rub Sam's shoulder with strong fingers, coaxing him back to sleep.

He'd been doing that a lot lately, he noticed—doing the best he could to keep Sam asleep. On the one hand, he figured he was just being a good big brother—after all he'd been through, the kid needed all the rest he could get. But on the other hand, Dean also felt guilty, because he couldn't help thinking in the back of his mind that the more Sam slept, the less Dean had to deal with their sudden new issues.

He realized then that Bobby had been talking, and dragged his mind back to their conversation to ask, "Sorry, what?"

Bobby sighed, but Dean could tell there wasn't _much_ real annoyance in the sound.

"I _said,_ no, she hasn't been eavesdropping. Too much. She's just got that whole intuition thing going on. Kinda creepy."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, Bobby, I'm sorry. But…look, he can barely handle _me_ right now. I don't know how he'd react to anyone else. I don't want to risk it, ya know?"

Bobby grunted. "Yeah, I know." He was silent for a moment, then asked, "So he's not doing so great, huh?"

Dean chuckled bitterly. "Oh, yeah, he's great. He lost me, went psycho, got his mind back again, and then learned that he'd been _killing_ people. He hates himself and he still half-believes I'm dead or a demon or gonna take off or whatever, but he's doing just _fine."_

Dean fell abruptly silent at the end of his outburst, surprised at himself. Absently, he reached out and rubbed Sam's shoulder again, trying to make up for the rise in volume.

On the other end of the line, Bobby sighed again. "Okay, I get it. You guys need some time. Me and Mo'll leave today. But boy, you _call me._ Keep me posted. I wanna see that boy as soon as he's up to it, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Thanks, Bobby."

"Sure thing, kid."

XXX

_Sam crouched in a corner of the room, staring at the flames as they once again crept closer. He couldn't understand what they wanted. Hadn't they taken enough from him yet?_

Go away…

_The flames ignored him, licking across the ground toward him, implacable, and he had no choice but to let them. He had no choice but to wait for them to hurt him again. He buried his head in his arms, and waited._

_But then there was a presence—warm, but with a rough edge to it. Sam put a name to it instantly._

Dean.

_The presence strengthened, and Sam instantly felt less alone._

_The flames leapt closer, and Sam closed his eyes._

Dean…

_Slowly, agonizingly, Sam began to pull himself to his feet. The flames danced, mocking him, but for the first time he didn't listen. He just continued to stand, until finally he was fully upright._

_The flames froze where they were, undecided._

_Then they retreated to the corner of the room, where they stayed, sullenly._

_Waiting._

* * *

_Author's Note: Huh. Ambiguous ending. _**shrugs**

_Anyway, that's it for this story! I'll get to work on the sequel. Stay tuned!_

_Thanks _so much_ to all who reviewed. I never expected such a response to this story! You guys made me so, so happy. I hope this lived up to expectations! And I promise I will reply to any reviews of the last chapter as soon as possible—hopefully tonight. And I'm also sorry about the people who asked me to beta and haven't gotten their stuff back yet—I've just been using every second of Internet access I have to update this. But I think I've solved the problem of lack of a signal, so maybe I'll be able to get on more here!_

_Anyways, see you all next time!_


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